by Kathy Brasby | Dec 24, 2020 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
This story is one of my favorites about a Christmas we shared with our family several years ago. I hope you enjoy it:
Many years ago, when most of the kids were still at home, we put together a Christmas plan one year: We’ll use the money for gifts to put together a ski trip, condo and all, for right after Christmas.
The kids bought into this with great gusto because they loved skiing. All went well until Christmas day when it was time to leave for the trip: their father felt a little guilty at the lack of gifts under the tree.
So he suggested a special outing on the way to the condo in the Colorado mountains. We pulled away from our house on the afternoon of Christmas, heading for some major snow.
“Let’s stop at that nice steak house on the interstate,” he said. He loves that eating spot to this day, even though it’s now closed. We’ve eaten at the new restaurant out of nostalgia for the old place.
But back to my story. We pulled in at the steak house after savoring tangy prime rib and steaming mashed potatoes in our imagination for an hour. They were closed. It was, after all, Christmas day.
Hmmm. We hadn’t thought of that, so we continued to the next town and pulled in, hoping the Chinese restaurant there might work well.
Closed.
We were starting to see a pattern. But we had five kids in the car, and the Christmas cookies were wearing off. They were restless.
“Let’s try a fast-food place.” My husband had set his heart on a special mealtime family gathering, but his stomach was growling, too.
All closed.
Grocery stores were closed. Walmart was closed.
Did we have anything to eat in the car? We started to take stock of any energy bars that might have been left in coat pockets. Any half-eaten cookies? I wondered about the crumbs under the toddler’s car seat. Starving kids makes one delirious sometimes.
Just then, my husband spotted a 7-Eleven convenience store. It was open.
We turned the kids loose. “Find something to eat.” We didn’t even add our usual “try to find something healthy.” Just quiet those growling stomachs somehow.
The kids grabbed chips and popcorn and gallons of fountain drinks. If you can’t have a ribeye, apparently a beef stick and trail mix work well, too.
Their parents have felt guilty for years for not having enough foresight to avoid such a disappointment. We wanted to give the kids a nice steak dinner. Their special dinner included candy bars, rubbery hard-boiled eggs, and who knows how many Twinkies.
But I have been assured by our older son not to worry.
“I got a fistful of dill pickles,” he said. “Best Christmas dinner ever!”
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by Kathy Brasby | Dec 9, 2020 | Christmas, Family, Humor, Stories
My mother’s love language included Christmas baking. From pfeffernusse to fudge, from peanut brittle to Christmas stollen, Mom always served up trays and trays of sweet goodies on Christmas eve.
So this story came about because I thought a mother’s love should include Christmas cookies. I keep telling myself that, anyway.
The cookie cutter set I found one November seemed to fit that goal. The box seduced me with photos of beautiful cookies in the shape of Mary and Joseph and baby Jesus in a manger. A little piping of frosting, a few sparkles in the right place, and my family would have a unique nativity set.
This was not ours. This was what I dreamed ours would look like.
And the best part was that we could do this project as a family with everyone helping.
I bought the set.
Yes, I knew we wouldn’t get the cookies quite as perfect as the photos. We had a two-year-old at the time. He would produce a cute but goofy little cookie.
It was OK. I could overlook the children’s immature attempts.
However, I forgot to factor in their mother.
I knew we were in trouble when I pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven. But there was no time to do another batch. The family was waiting.
Baby Jesus in the manger resembled a toasted marshmallow.
The sheep – and I’d made lots of them – all were blimps. Some had short fat legs but, since you couldn’t tell where the head was, the legs could have been prickles, too. Or maybe the head was.
Great. Christmas porcupines.
The camels’ longer legs had melded while baking.
“Is this a tree?” asked the six-year-old. Thanks, Dear.
The shepherds had morphed into tall planks of fencing. Or maybe a Volkswagen bug. It was hard to say.
Kneeling Joseph was now a giant S.
The kids were game, anyway. They slathered on frosting that was so thin that the blues and oranges for the wise men’s gowns flowed together, making a muddy brown.
Well, I thought those cookies were the wise men because of the lumps at the top, which I identified as crowns. Maybe they were cows with horns, in which case the muddy brown frosting made more sense.
There was a stable printed on the back of the box that could be assembled as the backdrop. I tossed that idea after our older son frosted an angel as though it were a donkey. I couldn’t see displaying these peculiar little figures.
When we were done, with sticky frosting on our fingers and sparkles drifting to the floor, I studied the blobs of icing and cookie.
“Well, this didn’t work out quite as I had hoped,” I told the family.
My husband surveyed the table, surrounded by sets of eager young eyes, and picked up a cookie. “Then we’d better destroy the evidence.”
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 21, 2020 | Family, Humor, Leadership, Stories
I didn’t really bungle this mission, although the word “oops” came up more than once.
A woman at our church had asked me to provide a meal for a family having medical and job issues. There are four adults and four kids in the family, so I knew I needed to cook up a lot of food. I made up a big pot of chili, a pan of cornbread, some home-baked cookies, and some carrot sticks. Lots of them.
I went to deliver the meal in the evening. The family lives on Elm Street, which could use some kind of city initiative to buy street lights because a camping tent at midnight had as much light. I pulled up in front of a house, saw a dimly-lit 205 by the door, and hauled my box of food to the front door.
An elderly woman answered. When I told her who I was, and what I had for her, she said, “How did you know?” I carried in the box of food and we unloaded it on her table. Her husband was watching TV and I didn’t see the other six people. Something started to wiggle in my brain at that point but I pressed on.
“We just got back from the doctor and I didn’t know what to do about supper,” she told me. “Thank you so much.”
So I must be in right place after all and the rest of the family was in the basement or looking at stars in the backyard.
Instead, I glanced at the husband, who had an oxygen tube threading across the floor to his nose and was just getting home from the doctor’s office. He must be the one having medical issues. Could I pray for him? Oh, yes. He rose, both of them took my hands, and I prayed for his health.
Then I walked out of the house and looked again at the number. 207. Oops! I had just delivered a meal for eight people to the wrong house. This couple was set for meals for a while.
I did a bit of prowling on the street and located 205 at the corner house. In the dark. I was lucky I didn’t trip on the black curb but that would have been just another oops in the evening.
So I had delivered a home-cooked meal for eight to a family of two and now I had nothing for the family in need. I ran to a grocery store a few blocks away. Although their deli section was pretty picked over, I spotted eight pieces of fried chicken that still looked plump.
Instead of chili, I delivered deli fried chicken, a canister of grocery-store potato salad, a bag of salad, and some cupcakes. I apologized when I delivered the meal and thought about inviting them to join their neighbors.
The family was gracious and appreciative of having any meal.
I’m still not sure how I goofed on the house numbers but God took my “oops” and turned it into meals for two different families. That works for me.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 12, 2020 | Family, Humor, Stories
I had just finished rinsing the shampoo out of my hair in the shower when my cell phone rang. I generally don’t take my cell phone into the bathroom, which allows me to ignore any calls during soap-and-scrub time.
But I could hear it and guilt rushed over me. Maybe this was important. I grabbed a towel and stepped out of the shower to see who was calling.
It was my sister.
With dripping fingers, I carefully lifted the phone and punched the green button. Water ran down my just-showered body, drenching the rug. I usually toweled off before getting out. You didn’t want to know that anyway.
“Cover your eyes,” I said, draping myself with the towel.
She hung up.
Should I call her back? Should I dry myself off first? Caught in indecision, I stood and dripped.
The phone rang again. It was my sister again. I assumed she’d accidentally hung up. She does that sometimes. Or mutes me inadvertently. Or so she says. But I’m digressing again.
As I pushed the accept button, I noticed that she had used FaceTime this time.
Facetime is a video phone call and there I stood draped in a soggy towel with soaked hair.
Well, it was my sister and she only had to see my dripping hair as long I aimed the camera on my phone correctly. I carefully lifted the phone until it was capturing only my wet nose.
“Why are you FaceTiming me?”
“I wanted you to see my new tooth,” she said.
I remembered then. She’d gotten an implant the day before at the dentist. She stretched her mouth to reveal the bright new tooth, up close on my phone screen. I could see her new teeth and I hoped she only saw my wet nose.
She started giggling. “Where are you?”
But did she then say, “Call me back when you’re dry”? No, she did not. She pressed on.
“The dentist screwed this implant on and it matches really well, huh?” Then she snorted. Assuming teeth implants aren’t really humorous, I guessed she was laughing at my dripping hair.
“And I have to pick up my grandson today and take him to the park,” she said and then began giggling. What? Trips to the park produce giggles? All I knew was that I wasn’t re-adjusting my phone view.
“And later I’m going to run downtown for a manicure.” More snickering.
Good grief, girl. Implants, park visits, and manicures while I was drip-drying outside the shower. I was so pleased to be her morning entertainment.
When the techies worked on the chips and circuits that would allow us to combine phone calls with video, I think they had images of salesmen using charts to illustrate quarterly earnings. Or giggling babies reaching out to touch their grandmother who lived across the country. Or a soldier connecting with his wife and kids from a foreign country.
And I’ll bet all those things happen.
But I wonder if their vision ever included stretched gums, new teeth, and dripping hair.
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by Kathy Brasby | Nov 5, 2020 | Country life, Humor, Stories
When I was 13, I noticed that my parents got a lot of mail while I, meanwhile, got exactly none. What fun was it to pick up the mail for them when there was nothing for me, day after day after day?
Leaping into action
Not being one to sit idly and complain, I leaped into action. I had a 4-H brochure that showed places where I could send off for free resources. So I manufactured my own mail.
Before long, I received a colorful cardboard chart showing 12 different ways to tie a knot. Soon, a brochure comparing Angus and Hereford breeds of cattle arrived in the mail – addressed to me. You can see where this going.
I started getting mail.
Somewhere in that time frame, I also received a chain letter from a friend. In those days, chain letters were the rage.
A chain letter
A chain letter would appear in your mailbox with the promise and the plea. Most of them held out the lure of money “Send a dollar to the first person on the list” and in a week or so, you’ll get dollars from all the people on the list.
Sure. Junior High school Ponzi schemes.
I am a skeptic. I have always ignored chain letters. My mailbox is where they came to die of lack of love and sunlight. My Facebook Messenger, too, but that’s another story.
This chain letter intrigued me. There was no money involved. Instead, you sent a postcard to the person at the top of the list and forwarded the letter to three of your friends. In a couple of weeks, you would get postcards from hundreds of people. Somehow exponential growth came into play.
What if these actually work?
Maybe I shouldn’t be presumptuous. Had I ever tested my skepticism? Why not see if any of those chain letter schemes actually worked? Maybe I had been missing out on some great rewards.
And, I had a free postcard.
Among my manufactured mail was an advertising postcard. Imprinted in bold, glossy colors was the head of a goat with floppy ears and a massive ear tag. The company that sent me the postcard sold ear tags.
That’d work.
Yes, I did: I addressed that postcard to the girl whose name was at the top of the list. I think she lived in Washington state. Somewhere far away, fortunately.
I gave it a try
I sent the three letters on to my friends. This seemed like such an easy chain letter that maybe it would work and I would get some postcards.
It didn’t work. I got nothing out of the deal.
But to this day, I think of that poor girl in Washington who sat by her front door dreaming of mail! Of colorful postcards with striking mountain scenes or lovely flowers or peaceful ocean waves. Postcards are usually like that.
Instead, she got a postcard of a goat and its ear tag.
Let that soak in for a minute.
But there is a moral to this story: don’t send me a chain letter unless you like ear tags.
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